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Author: admin

Aren’t you tired of reading article after article that does nothing but lay the blame of our faltering country at the feet of the opposing political party? Valid or not, it is redundant and counterproductive. Aren’t we all tired of the name calling, the bomb throwing, the gotcha moments and the general attitude of us versus them? Exactly where has this gotten us? As if any of us truly believe that all Democrats want to spend the country into Armageddon and that all Republicans want your ailing grandma to die in the street. Maybe you disagree, but I find this type of rhetoric lazy. Sure, people are going to disagree on politics. In fact, we should disagree! Passionate, open-minded disagreement is essential and it has the potential to “produce higher levels of political engagement, tolerance, and compromise among competing viewpoints.” Don’t believe me, read this.

The Splinter Generation is now accepting submissions of interviews with people you wouldn’t ever talk to. Find someone you wouldn’t ordinarily meet, or someone you disagree with on almost everything and have dinner, or a drink, or an email exchange.…

The Splinter Generation, a literary journal for and about people born between 1973 and 1993, has begun its next reading period and is now accepting submissions for creative nonfiction, fiction and poetry from October 1-December 1.

It’s true that most writing is done by a person whose bottom is sitting in a chair, whose fingers are striking the keys, and not outside ambling through nature enjoying summer’s bounty. We find sources of inspiration in different areas: love, anger, hate or beauty. I tend to get my creative hat on in the woods, or on the sea, or in a busy Italian cafe before a perfect pizza. Places connect me to stories and places are often the part of the story that stays with me, after I have reluctantly closed the book or watched the credits scroll. Setting is a part of the writing craft that gets at best second or third billing, but is crucial in creating a world that we enter, and then hate to leave.

I missed mass again. Third Sunday in a row that grading papers, cleaning the apartment, going for a bike ride, or watching football have been more important. After more than thirty-five years of being Catholic, I am ready to quit.

The week that Lauren and I broke up, my father had slipped an envelope through the cat door sawed into the bottom of my bedroom door. A sticker of a mockingbird sealed the clasp. The front read: (to read after you’ve had your coffee and are awake).

Spindly Billy, with his black leather and chains, had me up and pinned to the top lockers. He was about six foot in seventh grade. They had Sam, his head bobbing in the toilet, as they hung onto his head and hair and dunked him. When he was up for air, Sam yelled, “Help, Kevin.”

My mother in her flesh nightgown and I swallowed silence.
The bedroom door left ajar and I swallowed silence.
A book of refusal and I swallowed silence.
My sister’s corded laughter and I swallowed silence.